The Hole In The World
by Shakespeare's Girl
Summary: More character study based off dialoge and situations from the show. Spoilers for "A Hole In The World." Mostly Angel or Spike-centric.
1. Say It Anyway

**Say It Anyway**

**By Shakespeare's Girl**

**A/N: Angel's POV, beginning of a companion series to "Requiem." Looking at the events of "A Hole In The World" from our favorite vampire's points of view.**

"How's she handling it?" I asked, striding out of the medical wing and into the main office area.

"She's smarter than all of us put together," Wesley sighed, although it didn't seem to have much effect on his tension level. "She knows it's bad."

"How bad? What do we know?" Gunn demanded. I could relate. It sucks to know less than nothing about what's going on.

"Whatever she's got, it doesn't match up with any of the pathogens in our archives," Knox announced as we made our way down the stairs toward the lobby. "It's mystical, and it's not ours."

That was not good news. "What about the sarcophagus?" I asked.

"My team is cross-checking the symbols, but it's also new territory for us," Wesley answered me. He looked about as worried as the rest of us put together.

"Angel, what exactly is happening to her?" Gunn wondered. I had been dreading this question. "You talked to the doctor--"

"They have something?" Wesley interrupted hopefully.

"Yeah, I--uh . . ." I swallowed. This wasn't good news either. "Some parasitic agent is working it's way through," I tried, facing them as they gathered in a circle around me. "I mean, as near as they can tell . . ."

"Get to the point," Wes demanded tersely.

"Her organs are cooking," I told them, not bothering to sugarcoat what was happening. "In a day's time, they'll liquefy."

"No," Spike shook his head, and I turned to look at him. I'd almost forgotten he was there, he'd been so quiet since we left Fred's room. "Not this girl," he vowed. "Not this day." I had to swallow both my pride at his determination and the urge to be sick at the terror I saw underneath it. I knew it was like loosing a sister for him. They'd been getting close ever since he'd arrived here.

"Look, Wes," I began, tamping down my emotions, "you gotta tell me what was in that box. I need a name, a history, anything."

"We can't get it open," Knox chimed in. "Not even the lasers--"

"Where did it come from?" Wes asked, his voice growing harsher with his need to save her.

"It just showed up," Knox shrugged. "No return address. Didn't recognize the guy who brought it in--come to think of it, in the middle of the night."

"This was deliberate," I guessed.

"Senior partners?" Lorne ventured.

"Doesn't add up, but I'll hit the White Room," Gunn ran a hand over his head. "Talk to the conduit."

"Now look, if the senior partners didn't do this, you gotta get them to help us," I told him. In any case it would give him something to do.

"Anyway I can," Gunn promised.

"What about Doyle--uh, Lindsey?" Spike asked. "The man likes to play his games."

"I was looking to work the streets, and we've got his address. For all we know, he's probably sitting there laughing. And if there's muscle work to do . . ." I trailed off.

"Let's make it twice as fast," Spike nodded, catching my drift.

"And baby makes three," Lorne said firmly, taking a half step forward. "In case anybody feels like singing."

"Good," I nodded and looked around at my team. "Guys--"

"You don't have to say it," Wesley murmured, looking ready to bolt.

"I'll say it anyway," I ignored him. "Winifred Burkle. Go."


	2. Lost

**Lost**

**By Shakespeare's Girl**

**A/N: Angel's POV, on the flight to England to save Fred.**

We sat across the aisle from each other, the lush leather seats of Wolfram and Hart's private jet doing nothing to dissuade my natural distrust of anything that looked dangerous to vampires. I noticed Spike wasn't handling the height well either. He kept playing with his seat belt.

"I've never flown before," Spike mumbled, crossing his arms protectively.

"I've been in a helicopter," I offered, forcing myself to loosen my grip on my armrests. "They don't . . . go this high," I observed, taking a quick, sickening glance out the window.

"Back to the mother country," Spike sighed. "Hey, after we save Fred, we should hit the West End. Take in a show."

I nodded, the nerves in my gut easing at Spike's confidence that we would succeed. I think about it. The West End with Spike. That would be an adventure. "I've never seen _Les Mis_," I told him, agreeing without actually saying it.

Spike snorted. "Trust me, halfway through the first act you'll be drinking humans again."

There was silence for a few moments, both of us thinking about what waited for us in the Cotswolds. "I can't lose her, Spike," I said softly.

"We won't," Spike shook his head, not willing to think about the alternative to saving Fred.

I'm close to crushing my armrests. I want to tell him how much I can't lose Fred, how much it would kill me inside to lose her, but I can't think of the words. I think of all the other people I've lost, from Doyle to Spike himself, but mostly I think of Cordelia, and how losing her was all my fault. I can't have that again.

"I lost Cordy," I finally say. When I look at Spike, he's looking at me, he knows what I mean. I have to look away before I start to cry.


	3. The Deeper Well, Part One

**The Deeper Well**

**By Shakespeare's Girl**

**A/N: Spike's POV, this time. They discover the entrance to the Deeper Well, and Spike discovers he can piss people off just by exisiting. Which we already knew, but it's news to him. Apologies for a slightly Americanized Spike. I did my best.**

I hate fog. Bloody thick as pea soup, this lot is, and the god damned moonlight isn't making things any easier. Angel's been wearing the same, deep-in-his-thoughts expression since we landed, and I keep having to choke back nausea. It's turning into frustration, the fear is. God, I hate this. I bloody hate it!

"When is a door not a door?" I ask, unable to keep silent anymore. "When it's not sodding well there!"

"Right there," Angel points out a largish tree with an economical nod. Never much for big gestures. "You wanna bet that's the entrance to the Deeper Well?"

I shrug. "Either that or Christmasland." At his blank look I feel my frustration amp up a notch and I make a tsking noise. "Do you ever have any fun?"

He's about to answer me when there's a flash, sorta like lightning, and a bunch of gnome-y things dash out of the damn Christmasland tree and head for us. Angel's whole expression changes. "I'm about to," he answers me. I realize that he's found something he can actually deal with, and it's making him happy.

"And they even brought us weapons," I observe, not liking the look of the sharp, pointy swords. "Strategey?"

Angel smirks--and isn't that _my_ bloody trick?--and looks over at me. "Just hold my hand," he tells me, holding it out.

_Well, ain't that just asking for all kinds of trouble?_I think with a quirk of the eyebrow, even as I do as I'm told and take his hand. And then I feel it. "St. Petersburg," I sigh, remembering the good times we had in Russia.

"Thought you'd forgotten," Angel smiles, looking damn proud of himself. I shake my head at him and focus on the coming attack. As the little dwergi-things get to us, we let the wire drop from between our hands and stretch it tight, clotheslining three or four before they realize what's going on. I grab a sword from one of the fallen trolls and get to chopping, noting Angel's form is as perfect as ever as he swings the sword he's purloined, chopping off heads in single strokes and laying waste to the hateful little demons.

I have to grin. It really is just like old times. Only, you know. With souls.

Who knows how much longer, and we're still hacking and chopping at the gateway guards, although we are dominating fairly handily. With a simultaneous swing, we finish off the last of the guards, and I'm a little shocked when I realize that there are no more.

"Is that all?" Angel shouts at the sky, brandishing his sword. "We haven't even started!"

I tense as a man appears at the entrance to the Deeper Well. "I'd say that's enough," he calls as he walks toward us, no fear evident. It's as if--

"Drogyn," Angel pants, straightening from his defensive crouch.

"Angel," the man nods, stopping in front of us.

"You're the keeper of the well," Angel says, and it comes out a statement, even if it should be a question.

"Have been for decades," this Drogyn character affirms with a curt nod.

"Well who in the bloody--"

I'm cut off by the stranger, who apparently is already mad at me. "Do _not_ ask me a question," he spits, pushing himself into my space quite handily. "If you ever ask me a single question, I will kill you outright. Don't think for a moment that I can't," he hisses.

"He can," Angel says from behind the malicious little man. "He would."

"Eh?" I manage, more confused than frightened.

"You're here about Illyria," Drogyn says, and Angel nods.

"Yes."

"Walk in," Drogyn orders, and I can't help it.

"But how--?"

"I just said to you, not one moment ago, _don't ask_," Drogyn whirls on me, his words clipped with anger. Then he whirls again and stalks toward the damn tree.

"Seriously," Angel nods sagely. "He doesn't like questions."

I've had more than bloody enough. "Why the bloody hell not?" I demand, hands going to my hips in a move I've seen Buffy and Angel both use a hundred times.

"He can't lie," Angel explains, turning to follow the very angry man into the tree.


	4. The Deeper Well, Part Two

**The Hole In The World (or the Deeper Well, Part Two)**

**By Shakespeare's Girl**

**A/N: More of Spike's POV. Inside the Deeper Well.**

We followed Drogyn into the Deeper Well. He held the only torch, which made me suspicious, but Angel seemed to think he was all right. We walked in silence for a few yards, then Drogyn began talking, which for some reason was bloody annoying.

"I would never have thought you'd end up here, Angel," he said, turning toward Angel slightly.

"I could say the same," Angel answered diplomatically.

"So, you two know each other," I murmured, earning a glare from Drogyn. "That was a statement," I informed him, "I already know that you do."

"I'll tell you as much as I can," he grumbled, ignoring me. "The old ones were demons pure. They warred as we would breathe--endlessly. The greater ones were interred, for death was not always their end. Illyria was feared and beloved as few are. It was laid to death in the very depths of the Well . . . until it disappeared a month ago."

I rolled my eyes. "Someone took it from under you nose a month ago, and you don't miss it 'til now?" I ask, knowing it'll piss the cretin off. "That makes you quite the crap jailer doesn't it. _Also _a statement," I finish, before Drogyn can take my head off.

"Your friend likes to talk," Drogyn grumbled to Angel as he stopped walking.

"So much, he's even right sometimes," Angel agreed, and I decided then and there to get him for that little slur. "The man I remember couldn't be stolen from so easily."

Drogyn had the good grace to look sheepish. "The tomb was not stolen. It disappeared. I believe it was predestined to, as part of Illyria's escape plan. And as for my not noticing . . ." Drogyn stopped, doused the torch, and stepped into then next chamber. "Well, my charges are not few."

I stared at the Deeper Well, because what else could this be? A bridge spanned the well, and below it were coffins and sarcophagi and tombs, all disappearing into a really deep hole. There were apparently a few that gave off ambient light, because there were no torches in this place. I stepped closer to the edge, and gasped. "Bloody hell."

"How far does this go down?" Angel asked.

"All the way," Drogyn said. I arched an eyebrow at that. "All the way through the earth."

"So, the coffin disappeared, teleported," Angel put the pieces together, "but it was brought to us."

Drogyn gave a slight nod. "Illyria was a great power--so great that after millions of years dead, somewhere on this earth it still has acolytes."

Suddenly, Drogyn gasped. "It's been freed. The demon's essence," he accused, understanding making him angry. Angrier.

"Yeah, it's been freed," I snapped, finally losing it. "Why do you think we're here?" Drogyn opened his mouth to say hell knew what, but I didn't let him start. "And what's your favorite color? What's your favorite song? Who's the goalkeeper for Manchester United and how many fingers am I holding up?" I flipped him a two-fingered salute and let a little demon into my voice. "You wanna kill me? Try, but I don't have time for your quirks!"

Drogyn looked a little abashed, which was nice. I like it when I still scare people. Turning from me to Angel, he gestured to the opposite side of the bridge. "The power to draw back Illyria lies in there. It requires a champion who has traveled from where it lies to where it belongs."

"You've got two of those right here," Angel murmured, acknowledging me as an equal for the first time in my memory. I decided to let the earlier slur against my big mouth go.

"But I didn't know it was free," Drogyn hissed, obviously torn. He sighed. "If we bring the sarcophagus back to the well, it will draw Illyria out of your friend . . . and into every single person between here and there. It will become the mystical equivalent of airborne. It will claw into every soul in it's path to keep from being trapped. Entire cities--tens maybe hundreds of thousands of people will die in agony if you save her." Drogyn looked down.

Angel and I stared at each other, shocked. There was no way . . . it couldn't be true. If it were true, then we'd come all the way, fought--not terribly hard, but still hard enough--been threatened by a strange little man, and we'd still fail. Damn.

"No," Angel breathed. He took a few steps toward the railing, then looked down.

"That's madness," I informed Drogyn.

"This is a place of madness," he shrugged. "I'll prepare the spell. Your choice."

He turned quietly and walked into the antechamber he'd indicated before. I turned, looking down into the chasm below us, down through the earth. My back was to Angel, but I felt him take a few steps toward the exit, then back toward the center of the bridge. "To hell with the world," he finally spat, and I heard him turn with a flap of his overcoat and follow Drogyn.

I just kept staring, unable to fathom what had happened. We'd failed. To save one life, we had to forfiet millions of others. How had it come to this?

"Spike," Angel called, turning back to me before he stepped off the bridge.

I hesitated. Whatever I said next, it had better be deep. Like this damn hole. I gave a little laugh. "This goes all the way through to the other side," I mused aloud. "So I figure, there's a bloke somewhere around . . ." I calculated quickly, "New Zealand, standing on a bridge like this one, looking back down at us." I shook my head. "All the way down." I stood there, staring down into the empty space where the coffins didn't meet in the middle. I huffed another tiny laugh, then stopped, frowning, suddenly realizing the tragic symmetry of it all. "There's a hole in the world," I murmured. "Feels like we ought to have known."


	5. Perspective

**Perspective**

**By Shakespeare's Girl**

**A/N: Angel's POV, back on the airplane, on their way home from England. Is it gloomy in here, or is it just me?**

He tossed back another of the mini-bar Jack Daniels bottles and lined it up with the other ten or twelve he'd finished since we'd left Drogyn. He paused for a moment, taking stock of his level of intoxication, then picked up another and poured it into his mouth, swallowing.

I just watched him, not sure what else to do with myself. Spike stared at the line up of miniature bottles and scoffed.

"Can't even get drunk," he mumbled. "Why would anyone ever make a bottle this small?" he asked me, as if I knew. He kept staring at the bottle in his hand. "It's inhuman." He clunked the bottle down with it's matches on the tray table and studied me. "Thousands would have died if we'd saved her," he said, and somehow from him, it doesn't sound condescending, like it could have.

"Yeah," I agree.

"She wouldn't have wanted that," he said firmly.

"Yeah," I agree again. I'm so tired. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and rub my eyes. "I tried calling Wes. There was no answer."

"I guess she's gone, then," Spike frowned. He glanced at the bottles again, picking up another. "It's like a bloody tease. It's like, 'Here's what a bottle of Jack would look like if you actually had one,' or 'here's a drink, but it's very far away'." He pretended to look through a telescope at the bottle. I guess he was trying to cheer me up. Or maybe just himself.

"What does that mean, really?" I asked.

"It's a play on perspective," Spike snarked, waving the bottle at me.

"Gone," I correct him. "What does it mean that she's gone?"

Spike bit his lip, then started slowly, "Well, in the world of men, a person dies, they stay that way."

"Unless you're a vampire," I observed unhappily.

"Or the ghost of one that saved the world," Spike added.

"Or Buffy," I continued. "Death doesn't have to be the end, not in our world. Rules can be broken. All you have to do . . . is push hard enough."

But we're both smart enough to know that no matter how hard we push, dead is dead. Nothing changes that.


End file.
